Monday, January 21, 2019







I lay resting around midnight listening to piano jazz and then
The night air carried me back to the Dog of My Childhood Days
When, as children, while rain fell on Smith Street,
We played in puddles that pooled in the gutters in the cool afternoon.
On Smith Street by oak trees, whose large roots pushed
The sidewalk into uneven squares of cement
Lining our front yard, and our black dog,
Tess, a Labrador/Doberman mix, watched,
Ready to save any one of us if we fell into trouble.

We children grew up raking leaves into autumn piles,
Taking turns to run and jump into the rustle of dying leaves.
Packing hard winter snowballs to wage war between
The white, frozen walls we hid behind,
And playing red light/green light
With neighbor kids on those summer nights

Until one day I came home from school
And dad reported that Tess died of a cancerous tumor
Just moments before dad prepared to put her to sleep
At the vet lab where he worked.

The Epilogue to my Black Dog

We recall that spirit as if the dog had a soul
That will lick us when we die and enter
The next realm ready to brush that black coat
Until it shines in heaven, until we understand
How much a watchdog formed our lives.
Tess, who came alive to hear our voices
When we came home from school,
When we brought out the evening dinner scraps,
When we shared our daily burdens with her
On the front porch steps where we
Wondered what growing up would be like.
The black dog knew who we were and how we felt
Not needing any words; her broad tongue licking our hands,
Her soft eyes raised to ponder ours.
It was enough to make us human again
For a while at least.

            -- C. S. Cholas, February 24, 1999

Tuesday, December 11, 2018


THE YEARLY VISITOR

In the fruit bowl
your fingerprints are
like feathers resting.

Every year you come,
like the laundress, to clean
our souls of their thrashed moments.
Our arms extended to distant mountains
beg for your caresses.

You prefer to sit like an owl
that blinks, then flies away
in the night with a screech.

Can we be unmuzzled to call
in a whisper your name
in moonlight among ribbons of air
that howl through the porch screens?

You sit hugging your knees
as if they are a refuge.
This is our hangout open to stars
that we'll never finish counting
before winter.

It is your laugh we remember then;
your laugh, like a balm for the cruel winds
of anxieties that flutter from room to room
even when the windows are closed
and the ground is covered with pecan shells
and with balls of dirty cotton
from the gin next door.

We eat pecans and wonder
if you will return in summer.

From your spirit a cascade of rose water falls.
Your eyes, like feathers, brush us in the surprise
of a morning prayer answered.

-- C.S. Cholas
July 1986, Berino, NM
(for MZ)

Sunday, December 2, 2018







MATTAPONI

The Mattaponi cemetery was sure green.
Allmonds, Langstons, Custalows
Buried long ago. Other, too.
On the backside of the Baptist Church

I asked one toothless man
(His hoe divided the earth in rows),
Just how big is the Reservation?
He mumbled (no teeth, you know),
It goes all around, all around,

There and there (he pointed), it goes all around.
Thank you, sir, I wandered off;
My horizons broadened by our little talk.

-- C.S. Cholas, 1975

Thursday, November 29, 2018


                        



                                            Arthur

                        He sneaks under the covers at night
                                    While I sleep;
                        Climbs mutely into shoulders
                                    In the deep of dark;
                        Slips onto fingers and digs
                                    Upon joints and knuckles
                        In the cold starkness of a dreamless night.
                       
                        His grip tightens as he chuckles, I suppose.
                                    He knows what fun comes
                        To impose hurt on my helpless limbs
                                    To please his painful whims.

                        He nuzzles in my muscles, burrows into my space;
                                    And claims them as his own.
                        He is part boa and part beartrap
                                    He wraps around shoulders
                                    And clamps on my arms.
                        All done without a sound, no whisper, no alarm.

                        Pain greets the light of dawn:
                                    It aches to lie still.
                        To sit up brings pain.
                                    To raise an arm hurts.
                        A turn of the neck sends jolts down my back.

                        The only escape is to move
                                    And slowly break his grip.

                        Arthur writes us a tale of torment:
                                    Anguish of a body under siege.
                        In the angry clutches of his chains.
                                    Another day begins.
                                   
                                                                                    April 2018

Monday, November 12, 2018





Reflection

He had (every) reason to be angry
And yet no reason at all;
Betrayed by love, by friends,
By superiors, yet
Befriended by the poor and lowly
Of the town.

Told to take a Hard look at himself,
He went to a nearby pond
Stared at his face in the subtle ripples
The distorted bending of his features,
‘til he threw not a pebble,
But a sizeable rock in the middle
Of his watery reflection and watched
His face explode into numberless bits
Of light, color and shadows on the surface.

It felt good to see his own form eventually
Come back together on the pond,
Gently wavering, slowly simmering
Into a clearer picture of who he was.

Thursday, November 8, 2018

We are Broken Winged Birds


The following essay, which has been slightly revised, began as a letter to several Bahá'í friends in New Mexico, who are involved in teaching the Faith to native people.

Dear Friends,

Greetings! There is an interesting, mystical connection between the prayer revealed by 'Abdu'l-Bahá for the Western States and native Americans... here's some notes that might interest you:

First, some background....

Bahá'í history:

We all know that Bahá'u'lláh placed upon His eldest and most beloved Son, 'Abdu'l-Bahá, a three-fold mission. 1) to have the holy remains of the Báb safely interred at the designated Spot on Mt. Carmel; 2) to raise up the first House of Worship in Ishqabad; and 3) and foremost, to carry the Message of Bahá'u'lláh to the West.

The second of these missions was initiated by the Master in 1902 and supervised by "the venerable Haji Mirza Muhammad-Taqi, a cousin of the Báb" (God Passes By, p. 300) and was completed toward the end of the Master's life.

It took the Young Turks rebellion in 1909 to free up the Master to complete the first and third of His Holy Missions. Freed from the confines of Akka, 'Abdu'l-Bahá, as we all know, was able to proceed with the placing "the wooden casket containing the sacred remains of the Báb and His companion" in its final resting Spot. Chapter 18 of God Passes By is dedicated to that most holy entombment. It took place on the Vernal Equinox, 21 March 1909. Shoghi Effendi's has described the event in own words:

"When all was finished, and the earthly remains of the Martyr-Prophet of Shiraz were, at long last, safely deposited for their everlasting rest in the bosom of God's holy mountain, 'Abdu'l-Bahá, Who had cast aside His turban, removed His shoes and thrown off His cloak, bent low over the still open sarcophagus, His silver hair waving about His head and His face transfigured and luminous, rested His forehead on the border of the wooden casket, and, sobbing aloud, wept with such a weeping that all those who were present wept with Him. That night He could not sleep, so overwhelmed was He with emotion." (p. 276, God Passes By).

Meanwhile on that same blessed day in 1909 news reached the Holy Land about two interrelated events: In America the "first American Bahá'í Convention convened in Chicago" to create the Bahá'í Temple Unity. And from Iran news arrived about the martyrdoms of nine Bahá'ís.

The "most outstanding achievement that will forever be associated with

'Abdu'l-Bahá ministry" according to the Guardian (Chapter nineteen of God Passes By) was "the establishment of the Faith of Bahá'u'lláh in the Western Hemisphere". Of course, His travels in 1912 to the North American continent are well documented in several books, particularly the wonderful biography written by the Hand of the Cause of God Hasan Balyuzi.

Then, back in the Holy Land, in 1916 and again in 1917, the Master sent to the Bahá'ís of the United States and Canada the Tablets of the Divine Plan, the Charter for the spiritual conquest of the planet. Not only did the Master help establish the Faith of His Father in the West, now He called upon those same Western believers to go out and conquer the entire planet! And we have, of course, the wonderful prayers that He sent with those divine letters to empower the friends (us among them) to arise, to move and to endure.

In two prayers He uses the term "broken-winged bird". Once for those called to carry the Faith throughout the Americas -- "O Lord, I am a broken-winged bird and desire to soar in Thy limitless space." and, as we well know, He begins the prayer for the Western States, "O God! O God! This is a broken-winged bird and his flight is very slow-- assist him so that he may fly...."

In His Tablet of April 8, 1916 'Abdu'l-Bahá foresees and outlines the spiritual destiny of the indigenous peoples of the Americas:

"Attach great importance to the indigenous population of America. For these souls may be likened unto the ancient inhabitants of the Arabian Peninsula, who, prior to the Mission of Muhammad, were like unto savages. When the light of Muhammad shone forth in their midst, however, they became so radiant as to illumine the world. Likewise, these Indians, should they be educated and guided, there can be no doubt that they will become so illumined as to enlighten the whole world."

Of course, none of the above is new to you, but I'm taking the time to recount it as a background for the next part, and perhaps for us to ponder and to reflect on our own mission as teachers of the Cause.

A touch of Native American history:

The historical accounts of the long, unjust and brutal "Indian Wars" which peaked in the 19th century indicate that after 1890 and the cruel massacre of a Lakota village by the Army in the Battle of Wounded Knee and the capture of Geronimo in southern Arizona, the indigenous peoples of United States of America had been pretty much beaten into submission. Even famed chiefs like Sitting Bull of the resolute Lakota, who tried to learn how to become a farmer before his assassination by policeman on December 15, 1890, had surrendered. A few revolts such as one by a band of Utes near Blanding, Utah in 1926 and the struggle for autonomy by Seminoles holdouts in Florida occurred into the 20th century, but for the most part Reservation life became the lot of most of the US's indigenous population before the year 1900.

By the time of Bahá'u'lláh's Ascension in 1892 the tribes of native America had been defeated by the aggressive, deceptive and persistent pressure and attacks from the US Army. The last fights between native people, especially the Cheyenne and Lakota, and the US soldiers (such as the infamous 1876 Little Bighorn with Custer's men, or the1864 Sand Creek Massacre in Colorado under the charge of Methodist preacher turned colonel John Chivington, who believed that "it is right and honorable to use any means under God's heaven to kill Indians!") had become so hateful, that descriptions of what each side did to each other are as bad or worse than the horrible accounts we have in the Dawnbreakers of the martyrdoms of the Babís and early Bahá'ís.

Reservations were created, usually on land that couldn't produce enough food to feed the people, and every move any Native person made was watched and open to suspicion by the governing bodies. Many children died of starvation or from hypothermia in those times.

Plenty Coup, chief of the Crow in Montana, who had been a respected warrior in his younger days, saw how dispirited the people of all the tribes had become. In 1909 he sent out messengers to invite representatives from other tribes from the Plains to come to one last Council Fire. This Council Fire took place in September 1909 at Little Bighorn. Many Native leaders came, but because the gathering was under the constant gaze of US soldiers, they seemed tense and were not free to say what they might really have wanted to say. With that in mind, some of the speeches given at that fascinating gathering paid honorable respects to the white government and its help to the Indian people, something that it would be hard to believe expressed the true sentiments of those gathered.

However, Plenty Coup addressed the gathering with these potent words:

"I see no longer the curling smoke rising from our lodge poles. I hear no longer the songs of the women as they prepare the meal. The antelope have gone; the buffalo wallows are empty. Only the wail of the coyote is heard. The white man's medicine is stronger than ours...We are like birds with a broken wing." (From The Vanishing Race: The Last Indian Council by Joseph Kossuth Dixon)

Could 'Abdu'l-Bahá, half way around the world, have heard such words via spiritual waves? Was He listening to the sadness of the those weakened by the oppressors? Is it mere coincidence that the Master should reveal a prayer for the friends in these Western states in 1917 that begins, "O God! O God! This is a broken-winged bird and his flight is very slow..."?

Perhaps it is coincidence, perhaps it is a strange coincidence!

Maybe Plenty Coup was inspired to say those words by the transcendent Power of the Call. Maybe not, but ever since I read the address of Plenty Coup's to that last Great Council Fire of 1909, I cannot but feel there is a connection.

Perhaps it is a mystical connection that we can partake in when we use that special prayer each morning and beg our Lord to lead us to the receptive and waiting souls. Is there a connection between broken-winged birds and the spiritual destiny awaiting the indigenous peoples throughout the Americas as they receive and absorb the Divine Revelation of Bahá'u'lláh, Who referred to Himself as the Most Great Spirit in some of His Tablets?

Bahá'u'lláh wrote to a Bahá'í in Syria named Maqsud these beautiful Words (sometime after the revelation of the Kitáb-i-Aqdas):

"He that hath Me not is bereft of all things. Turn ye away from all that is on earth and seek none else but Me. I am the Sun of Wisdom and the Ocean of Knowledge. I cheer the faint and revive the dead. I am the guiding Light that illumineth the way. I am the royal Falcon on the arm of the Almighty. I unfold the drooping wings of every broken bird and start it on its flight." (from Tablets of Bahá'u'lláh p. 169)





Struggling with the Difficulties of Life – 1984 visit to Monkey Hill, St. Kitt’s
            During my 1984 visit to St. Kitt’s, the Bahá’ís in Basseterre suggested I visit a Mr. Brown (perhaps Victor Brown?) who lived in the village of Monkey Hill, a short bus ride north of the airport. 
            Mr. Brown had a small cobbler shop on a hillside.  As I walked up the hill to his place, I could hear him hammering on the heel of a shoe he was repairing. 
            “Mr. Brown?” I queried as I came close to the doorway and saw him pounding on a shoe.  “Alláh’u’Abhá! I’m a Bahá’í visiting from Puerto Rico.  My name is Chris.” 
            Continuing to work on what seemed to be a problem-some shoe, he greeted me with, “I’m struggling with the difficulties of life.”  He put his hammer down and reiterated that life is full of difficulties.  I agreed.  I shared with him that I once worked in a shoe shop in my home town in the United States and could relate to troublesome shoes.
            I understood from him that he originally came from the nearby island of Nevis and had moved to Monkey Hill as a homefront pioneer for the Faith.  He said that teaching the Faith went very slow in the village, but he was committed to be there to serve as best that he could.  His shoe shop brought him only a meager income, but he seemed content. 
            It was a brief visit, but the memory of Mr. Brown diligently working on that shoe as he devotedly served the Faith sticks memorably in my mind.